


Pull the Mask Off

by benxway



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, F/M, M/M, affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:35:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benxway/pseuds/benxway
Summary: Ben tilts his head, quirking an eyebrow. There’s a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, his eyes loaded with that usual mischievous glint as he utterly feigns indifference to Callum’s coldness. In fact, if Callum is judging him correctly, it looks as though he’s almost thriving on it; like it’s driving him, challenging him and making him work for what he wants.“Ah,” Ben starts, with a knowing bob of his head. “Playing the hard to get game are we?” he remarks casually, as though he almost anticipated this sort of reception from the other man.





	Pull the Mask Off

Callum stirs in the bed, slowly cracking his eyes open. The familiar daunting tremble already creeps in to his stomach as he automatically prepares himself to go through what has now become a mechanically engrained part of his day. He has about a good split second every morning before all memories freshly strike him once again, like a pent up dam bursting free and submerging the surrounding surface, innocent bystanders be damned.

  
Why is it that Ben Mitchell is his first thought of the day?

  
Weeks, _months_ have now carelessly tracked him by from that one night. That one night when he was unable to strain his eye from casting astray, drifting beyond the vacant floor of E20 and settling longingly upon one particular figure at the far end.

  
His girlfriend was perched there, cackling giddily with an infectious smile on her face; a gleam in her eye.

  
But it wasn’t her who stole his gaze.

  
It was the man clocked right beside her.

  
And that night changed all.

  
No matter how many days soar heedlessly off of the calendar; and no matter the hankering yearn of determination prevailing within him and willing him to be rid of this guilt-ridden suffering, nothing has unshackled him of the reckless desire to pursue the seed of want ignited persistently in the gaping chambers within him.

  
And with each passing second he spends lusting back on his moment of stray, he envisions the rising stack of cards towering in his chest, just one slip away from collapsing and destroying all. And still, _still_ he can’t seem to quash the burning well of raging need bubbling in his stomach, telling him to go back for more.

  
In truth, he’s more than aware that from the very moment he had Ben thrust against the door in Number 45, the definitive feel of his solid chest emerging through his scrunched shirt, where his own fists forcefully gripped it, when he so much as allowed his eyes to chance a glance at the other man’s lips, the ghost of Ben’s winded breath heaving steamily in his face, engulfing his senses as it collided with his own pant of exhales, a mix of sweaty moist sensations clamming in his throat, that it fizzed in his mind thoughts so whirly overwhelming.

  
Thoughts which he had so tormentedly tortured himself into suppressing within the deepest, bottomless anchors of his heart, until he had convinced himself that they had become so obscure, so indistinguishable, that he would, _could_ never breathe air into them again, light the flame.

  
But it was always bubbling below the surface.

  
And there he was, aching to succumb to it.

  
He wearily turns his head and looks across at Whitney, his doting fiancée dozing dreamily with a soft smile on her face as her head rests in the crook of her outstretched arm. The faint morning sun tiptoes through their floral curtains and highlights her gentle features, her vibrant red hair draping lazily across her face. She truly does look beautiful, Callum thinks as he smiles to himself. A sour frown emerges on his face, however, once he’s hit with the realisation that this is just yet another one of his unconscious tactics he employs to reassure himself that he’s not living a lie, that he is content with this life. That he does love Whitney.

  
He’s left with a sharp twist in his gut.

  
+++

  
It’s almost lunch time when he’s glaring mindlessly at the paperwork set before him, unable to focus with the conversation with Whitney still dragging on in his mind when she phoned him up almost half an hour ago.

  
She had bombarded him with countless arrangements for the wedding, offloading details on him which in all honesty, he’s entirely sure could have held off until they had at least settled in for the night.

  
Nevertheless, Whitney is excited, and he damned sure won’t do anything to jeopardise that. He’s already hanging by a thread as it is. He can tell she’s clocked his odd behaviour, how her face momentarily drops and then attempts to quickly recover when he declines the offer of a cuddle and pizza in front of the telly, instead replacing it for an early night.

  
The mood never seems to take him anymore. He would like to believe that it’s just down to the fact that he’s shattered after work, but somehow even he knows there’s little truth in that.

  
He _wants_ to be excited for their big day, of course he does; so much so that he’s almost going out of his way forcing himself to be enthusiastic. But no matter how much he smiles and laughs at the appropriate times, and wraps his arms bracingly around his wife-to-be when they get yet another thing ticked off the list on their way toward wedded bliss, he knows he’ll never truly be able to match her genuine level of elation.

  
Not when there’s someone else on his mind.

  
And it doesn’t fail to dawn on him how the haphazard red swipe on their calendar marked by his fiancée encircling the date of the 31st of August also does nothing to stimulate any thread of anticipation. Instead it works to unnerve him, set him on edge, laser through him from the hook on the wall when he’s sat eating his toast in the morning.

  
A sickening quiver squirms in and settles in his throat as he’s further reminded that the more colour schemes and decorations they arrange, the further he’s enclosing himself into this lengthening track of doom.

  
He feels the beginnings of a sweat rupturing, now struggling to catch a breath with the additional hindrance of his taut shirt and musty air of the office, almost sure that they are only implemented as part of the grand scheme of the secret agenda to antagonise the life of Callum Highway, taunting him. He needs air.

  
“Think I'm gonna head out on my lunch now, Jay. That alright?” he asks expectantly, already grabbing his blazer in an awkward fluster.

  
“Sure no problem, mate. Mrs Birch wreck you out an’ all? She don’t half go on does she. How many times did she bang on about that talking pirate of hers that don’t even talk? It probably does but just can’t get a word in edgeways with her!” Jay snorts as he sorts through papers on the desk opposite, oblivious to Callum’s change in demeanour. “Aw well, you gotta hand it to her. She’s coming up eighty and still tearing away. That pirate’s probably the only thing keeping her sane!”

  
Callum huffs a strained laugh. “Well I’ll-” he starts, motioning toward the door.

  
“Oh yeah, yeah course, mate,” Jay placates. “Don’t worry, I’ll not dock your wages for bunking off early!” he calls after him in jest, Callum having already bolted out the door.

  
+++

  
The glaring beam of the sun and crisp wind hit him instantly as he steps outside, simultaneously both refreshing and unsettling. He scrunches his eyes shut, lips trembling as he rakes a hand through his hair, head planted against the door of the parlour behind him.

  
He wobbles slightly on his feet, placing a hand to the wall as a lever as his legs cumbersomely carry him in strides, making a beeline toward the bench opposite The Vic.

  
He darts around a man with a dog who’s dawdling along the path, stretching a hand out to the arm rest of the bench in an attempt of salvaging stability, and finally manages to station his back against the cool slats of wood. He drops his head back, brushing his knuckles desperately against his chin, struggling to compose any form of thought order in his whirling mind.

  
He’s wrecking his brain for answers, pleading with the inner chambers of himself, hopelessly begging to overcome this constant state of turmoil. He forcefully drills into that incessant nagging in the hollow of his mind that he _is_ satisfied with his life with Whitney. He _has_ to be.

  
He can’t succumb to the hounding from within, the panging ache at his heart; submit to the screeching banshee shrieking screamingly through the tormented corridors of his mind; a whisper, a lingering echo that he’s living a lie.

  
No, he _can’t_ do that. Because that would only call for one thing- surrendering to the haunted carved image of his father chiselled in the crook of his mind. Disgusted glint in his eye, sickened curl of his lip, taunting smirk firmly in place. A confirmation to him of what he had always known; the failure son.

  
He’s about to make a bolt for it, the fresh air doing nothing to remedy his state, when an all too familiar voice rings his ears.

  
“Don’t you have old cronies to be planting six feet under?” Ben shouts out from across the fence, his words coated with the usual gravelly coarseness and gruff teasing lilt, fizzing something foreign yet familiar in Callum’s stomach.

  
Ben strolls up, resting his side effortlessly on a spiked pole at the entrance, his hands placed in the pockets of his dark jeans.

  
His heavy black jacket should look out of place on such a scorching day, but he wears it with such self-assured posture that no one would blink twice. “Must say I wouldn’t have taken you for a slacker. Well, given your performance of the other night anyway. Just depend on the circumstances does it?” he goes on goadingly, his customary biting humour seemingly on top form today.

  
Callum notes, as he unconsciously glances up, that Ben is now standing there, staring at him with what looks like mild curiosity; seemingly taking in his despondent nature. Callum finds himself cowering, squirreling in on himself; unnerved to feel the prestige of Ben’s weightily ladened gaze upon him.

  
Callum blinks, catching himself. He minutely shakes his head; not sure of where this is going but also knowing that he can’t trust himself when he’s anywhere within breathing space of Ben Mitchell, for a reason in which he’s found himself painstakingly searching for in every waking moment of his days. He can never quite locate one. Or maybe he’s just not allowing himself to. It’s not something he likes to dwell on, no matter how much his mind persists otherwise.

  
“What do you want?” he fires back, replying with a new-found resolve, making sure, _needing_ himself to not give in to the chasm of burning want which has engulfed itself within every crevice of his body, not abandon himself to the intangible fizz of excitement beating in his chest, enrapturing a full-body thrill in him of what could come.

  
Ben tilts his head, quirking an eyebrow. There’s a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, his eyes loaded with that usual mischievous glint as he utterly feigns indifference to Callum’s coldness. In fact, if Callum is judging him correctly, it looks as though he’s almost thriving on it; like it’s driving him, challenging him and making him work for what he wants.

  
“Ah,” Ben starts, with a knowing bob of his head. “Playing the hard to get game are we?” he remarks casually, as though he almost anticipated this sort of reception from the other man.

  
He saunters over the short distance, completely dismissing the unspoken rule that they’re not to so much as even glance sideways at each other ever again, let alone voluntarily start up conversation. He plunks himself down beside Callum, only inches parting them. Callum has to restrain himself from acknowledging the hitch of his breath and the unexplainable prickling sensation thrumming under his skin that arises from the other man’s close proximity. “I just fancied a wee chat,” Ben goes on chirpily. “It ain’t a crime is it? But then again it ain’t usually a natter that takes your fancy when it comes to benches.”

  
“Nah,” Callum begins, rapidly shaking his head; eyes wild. “I ain’t playing no games. We’re done,” he declares firmly with a jolt of his head. It would have been convincing if it wasn’t for the blatantly obvious crack in his vocals swamping his final words. He’s also acutely aware of the fact that his own eyes are full of desperate plea, like he’s wordlessly begging Ben to take a grasp of the situation, because he knows he can’t. That his grip on this, whatever _this_ is, is recklessly slipping. That it could almost plunge to a point where he doesn’t even know if he would _want_ it to be reigned back in. Just that thought in itself is enough to unnerve him.

  
“Alright, alright, don’t go breaking a sweat,” Ben taunts him as he holds his hands up. “Bit claustrophobic in that closet is it?”

  
Callum knows that he should leave it at that, to not rise to his bait. But a certain part of him _wants_ to react, _wants_ to give in to Ben’s will. An unexplained surge in his chest clouding any hope for logical judgement, some deep-rooted desire willing him to lengthen this precious snippet of time he’s somehow managed to capture with the other man.

  
But Callum also knows what it would mean to give in, to free himself of the final surviving shred of restraint within him, which is so enduringly wrestling him, hauling him back from the fringes of destruction.

  
“Jus- Just go. Please,” Callum begs, raising his hand and making a weak horizontal striking action with it across the air, as if by somehow this will be the thing that gets through to the notoriously unyielding Ben Mitchell.

  
Ben stares at Callum then, silently observing him. His attention is drawn to the subtle quiver of his lip, the guarded batting of his eyelids, constantly on edge. It’s fascinating to watch him, if he’s honest. He recognises himself in Callum, the stringent length of paralleling signs which were also once relentlessly carved within him. It’s a reflection of his younger self almost; the synchronous brick wall of guard which once held an eternal burdensome presence within him too.

  
And then there’s the crushing, unrelenting state of dread to contend with; so all-consuming, tearing away at your insides chunk by chunk. Never knowing when you’re going to slip up; let surface a glint of the forbidden secret buried wretchedly within you. A taxing blanket of guilt engulfs your senses, submerged by the dire ache in your heart that you are somehow betraying the ones around you as you agonisingly bury this concealed fragment of yourself.

  
Ben finds something twinging in his chest, feels himself relenting.

  
“Ey,” he begins softly, a subtle nod of his head, casting his eye down to Callum’s nervously fidgeting and entangled fingers.

  
He gently extends his hand, cautiously placing it atop of Callum’s lower arm. Volts of electricity instantly spark alight in his fingertips, a prickly buzz gushing through his veins like bees to honey.

  
Callum almost recoils, taken aback. He wearily glances down at the action, studying it, seemingly deciphering whether this is a genuine act of sincerity on Ben’s part.

  
“Ey,” Ben repeats encouragingly. “Look at me.”

  
Callum waveringly raises his head, faltering before finally daring to direct his gaze in Ben’s region.

  
Ben catches his eye, holds it. They click together.

  
They gaze at each other with such an intense sincerity, hypnotic almost. Like they’ve been caught off guard, neither one prepared for the almighty arrest it takes on them.

  
They’re immersed in their own bubble, zapped into a parallel universe where it’s just the two of them, floating in abyss, staring earnestly through the swimming oceans of each other’s eyes until they meet the other’s soul; identify with it.

  
They fall into a mirroring rhythm, tenuously swaying in and out of each other’s orbit, an impalpable force prising them together.

  
Ben’s grip tightens on Callum’s wrist as their lines of gaze flicker to each other’s lips. Then back up again.

  
Callum’s eyes blink softly, his lips part. It ensues a hitch in Ben’s breath.

  
Callum glances down, his eyes falling on the touch of Ben’s fingertips faintly treading over the delicate skin where his sleeve doesn’t quite reach his wrist. Inadvertently, Callum catches himself, a minute jerk of his shoulder.

  
It slams them back to earth.

  
They both stall, freezing. Ben’s eyes squint as he now traces Callum’s eye line. It takes him a moment, still dazed from the intensity of what’s just prevailed, before the clogs visibly grind in his mind and his eyes widen as he registers where his hand is placed.

  
Ben’s left in a state of flounder as his brain breaks into action, vigorously having to grip every inch of his willpower to physically allow himself to tear away his contact.

  
He stammers, his hand slipping away.

  
Callum can’t fathom the justness of how such a fundamental action can pivot a million ferocious daggers to his heart. The shattering of Ben’s touch, it’s everything wrong. It’s the loss of duvet in the morning and the embrace from his mother he never received when he scraped his knee.

  
Ben scratches at his forehead, struggling to string any form of sentence together in his now whirlwind of a mind.

  
“Eh,” he stutters, furrowing his brows. “Look. What you’re going through. You’ll get through it y’know,” he settles upon with a weak smile. “Besides, I’m always a dial away on the Over the Rainbow Hotline when you find yourself in direful need of my inspiring insight,” he adds with a roguish smile, tone smothered in mock flatter for himself.

  
He says it in jest but Callum has a sneaking suspicion that there’s a little more to that goading smirk and scoffing banter than he’s letting on. Something which tells him it’s more than just the usual sarcastic quip. Something which tells him he actually means it.

  
Callum is somewhat aware of a few of Ben’s defence mechanisms, his methods of self-preservation. How he’s weary at the mere thought of offering a shoulder of comfort for fear of downright rejection. That it will somehow explode horrendously back in his face and leave him shunned, humiliated.

  
How his butch exterior is in actual fact just a front to mask the vulnerable, broken fragments within him. How most seem to be blinded by his sniping remarks, not question the truth beneath the callous, superficial guise he portrays to the world.

  
Callum’s gaze lingers on him a moment, spots the hesitant flicker dancing in the bottomless depths of Ben’s eye somewhere beyond the mask of the teasing squint.

  
Callum drops his head, wets his lips. “But how do I-,” he starts, faltering, has to clench his eyes to congregate the words. “How do I get through it?” he musters finally.

  
He knows he’s slinked into menacing territory now, has surpassed the ‘Do Not Enter’ sign bolted on the staffroom door of primary school.

  
Ben eyes him, sympathy evident in his features, a soft crease of his forehead. “Mate, if that part obtained a section in the guide book for Closet Case Gays we’d all be winning,” a whisper of a bitter laugh tinging his words, hitting too close to home, recalling.

  
Callum gives an imperceptible nod of his head, understands.

  
“Anyway,” Ben chirps with new assuredness, seemingly regretting his moment of exposure and attempting to cover it up. “Don’t you have stiffs to be tending to?” he remarks, a raise of his eyebrow.

  
“Ben-,” Callum cuts in, halting. “Whit- Whit can’t know. You- You won’t tell her sure you won’t?” he stammers.

  
Ben pauses. “What do you take me for, Callum?” he asks, briskly.

  
Callum's expression remains uptight. Ben takes it in, going to amend his words.

  
“Look,” he continues, gentler now. “I’m not gonna out ya. But you know that. I know what it’s like, to be where you are. I wouldn’t want that for anyone,” he finalises with a certain calmness to his tone. “And besides, I don’t exactly fancy Whit plotting my demise Sideshow Bob style any time soon, so I ain’t breathing a word to no one,” he remarks holding his hands up.

  
Callum darts his head up, shooting him a look.

  
“What?” Ben declares, high-pitched. “Are you telling me you don’t think she has the potential to be chasing me round the square with one of Shirley’s kitchen knives? She already has the psycho red hair for the job. I’m sure Kat Slater could rustle up some crimpers and then all she needs is an Edward Scissor Hands haircut down Denise’s an’ she’s ready to go,” Ben asserts persuasively. “Blimey, I can already visualise myself as Bart Simpson cornered at the edge of the local quarry.”

  
Callum shakes his head, although there’s an exasperated glint in his eye. “You’re off your head y’know that?” he retorts incredulously. “Anyway, can we not talk about Shirley’s kitchen knives? That woman gives me the creeps.”

  
“Oh please,” Ben counters with a huff of a laugh. “You’re the one who used to be shacked up with her. Although she does give off strong ‘Would Spend Free Time Making Voodoo Doll Of Punter Who Short-Changed Them Five Pence For Pint Back In 1823’ kind of vibes. It would be up to you to testify to the angry mob with their burning pitch forks that her living space is a witchcraft-free zone.”

  
Callum utters to himself, his cheekbones straining to suppress the upward turn of his lips which are creeping to form a smile. He quietens for a moment, pondering. “Where do you think she keeps them?” he asks suddenly out of the blue.

  
“What?” Ben retorts.

  
“Shirley,” Callum states. Ben furrows his brows. “The voodoo dolls…”

  
Ben has to look twice at him.

  
“Well I mean it would be a bit obvious to have them lying round the house wouldn’t it,” Callum continues, perfectly serious. “Mick or Linda could stumble upon them if they were just shoved in the bathroom cabinet.”

  
Ben rolls his eyes, a fond smile playing at his lips as he stares at the other man. “You really are something else d’ y’know that? I don’t know, gang, why don’t we split up and look for clues? Daphne and Velma, you check Karen’s launderette. Shaggy and I here will search Minute Mart. See if Honey’s come across any peculiar sightings during her daily stock take.”

  
Callum throws him a look. “What about Scooby?” he asserts with bewilderment. “Did you even watch the show?”

  
“Well I watched for the fit blonde dude, if that helps,” Ben smirks. “Although I see my type must have evolved throughout the years,” he remarks significantly, carefully dragging his eye up to Callum’s hair and then down to meet his gaze again.

  
Callum blusters, ducking his head, abruptly picking at the skin around his nail. “Well technically speaking the girls go with Fred,” Callum mutters.

  
Ben quirks an eyebrow. “Do you really have to ask why I took the fella? I mean as much an’ all as Shaggy could do with a bulk purchase of Gillette shaving foam, he’d still be the one I’d be taking into dark alleyways. To look for monsters, of course,” he clarifies with a wink.

  
They seem to have settled into a bantering rhythm now, come to a mutual understanding.

  
Callum feels the tightness in his insides relax, a knot physically unwinding itself.

  
He sighs. “And does this mean I’m Shaggy? You’re saying I look like a bloke who hasn’t seen a decent hairdresser in the best part of a year and who’s best mate’s a talking K9?” he summarises confoundedly.

  
“Hmm,” Ben eyes him. “Looks wise, no,” he contemplates ponderingly, as though visually weighing it up in his mind. “But his run ain’t all that straight, which nicely ties in with the fact that you ain’t strai-”

  
“Right!” Callum cuts in, interjecting. “I get the picture.”

  
Ben smirks, continuing. “So there’s quite the similarity we could draw upon.”

  
Callum concedes. “And why do you get to be Fred?”

  
Ben shoots him a pointed glare, as though he doesn’t even have to corroborate on that. Ben’s logic being that Fred is the most attractive of the lot, simultaneously making him the one who would unquestionably prize the role of starring as in this make-believe story.

  
“So despite the fact yous literally look nothing alike in the slightest?” Callum questions.

  
“Eh, how’d you work that out?” Ben contorts, screwing his nose up.

  
“Well you don’t have the blonde quiff hair or orange ascot tie for starters,” Callum answers with reason, giving great thought to the prospect.

  
“Wow, hold on a sec. I think we’ve just unearthed Fred Jones’ secret stalker here. Can I be sure this is really Callum? Scooby, pull the mask off.”

  
“Oh so you remember Scooby now?” Callum teases with a grin.

  
“Oh shut up,” Ben laughs, swiping at Callum’s arm.

  
They smile as they meet the other’s eye, laughter filtering to a halt as their eyes penetrate through each other, gaze weighted with gravity as both their mouths drop open, stumped for words; eyelashes fluttering, a bubbling fusion of sensations sizzling unwaveringly between the lines.

  
They’re at a standstill, neither one daring to act.

  
“There you are, babe!”

  
They instantly jerk apart.

  
Callum freezes, as though held at gunpoint. His mind whirs, has to strenuously recuperate and collect the over-spilling thoughts bleeding every inch of his head, a whirling obtruding hurricane.

  
Whitney approaches, her leopard print heels clinking rhythmically off the cement as she makes her way across the footpath, clutch of her handbag resting in the crook of her arm.

  
“I’ve been looking all over for you!” she declares with a tutting laugh, now closer. “Ben,” Whitney utters sheepishly by way of greeting; her eyes flickering uncertainly as she glances over at the other man. “What you doing out ‘ere, eh?” she remarks, eye-line now resuming focus on her fiancé. “I were thinking we could pop t’ caf’ for lunch. What do you reckon, babe?”

  
“Oh course, yeah. Sounds great,” Callum responds as he straightens his back, just about regaining composure. “Ben were just- Ben were just asking where Jay was, wasn’t you?” Callum thinks up on the spot, glaring at Ben and willing him to agree.

  
Ben stares right back at Callum, cocking his head with a glint in his eye. He looks as though he’s ready to counter him, but then he leisurely turns his head to Whitney, quirking an eyebrow. “Yes,” he declares grandly. “That’s right. I was in need of your fiancé’s wise assistance. But somehow I’m still sat here twenty minutes later. Quite the mouth on him, he has,” Ben chuckles to himself. “Turns out he’s not the most skilled at being straight… to the point,” he finishes, dragging out his final words and smirking over at Callum who’s eyes have widened with horror.

  
“Oh, right,” Whitney starts hesitantly, glancing wearily between the two men. “Well he’s in t’ office. I’d popped in looking for you, babe but he said you’d clocked off early. You’re alright aren’t ya, babe?”

  
Callum’s mouth momentarily drops, a sweep of guilt plunging through him as he remembers just the reason he left. “Yeah I’m fine,” he asserts with a tight smile. “Just got too hot in the office is all.”

  
“Oh, right, well come on then!” she announces heartily with a beaming smile, motioning her head toward the gate. “We’d need to get moving if we’re goin’ t’ caf’. Shirley will have me guts for garters if I’m not in for me shift on time!”

  
“Right, yeah,” Callum replies with a weak laugh, making to get up.

  
“I must say,” Ben starts unexpectedly, stopping Callum in his tracks. “I’m feeling a bit like a spare wheel here. I’ll just go book my table for one, I suppose,” he sighs dejectedly, the goad behind the remark only distinguishable to Callum’s ears.

  
“Well you’re more than welcome to join us, ain’t he Callum? More the merrier an’ all that,” Whitney chirps.

  
Callum’s eyeballs shoot out of their sockets. “What? No he can’t he- Ben w- Ben will have work, won’t you?” he splutters out frantically.

  
Ben tilts his head, eyeing Callum with intent. “Well, as much an’ all as I’m touched by the concern, Callum, I wouldn’t have minded a spot of grub actually. Especially with the top power couple of Walford,” he declares enthusiastically. “Yous could have passed on some insight on how to remain in such a loving, faithful relationship.”

  
“Oh stop it,” Whitney huffs with an embarrassed laugh. “There’s no secret to it. We just really love each other don’t we, babe?” she fawns, now gazing adoringly at her fiancé.

  
“Oh, yeah,” Callum agrees with a breathy laugh, forcing a smile, realising his fiancée was expecting an answer.

  
“Hmm, of course,” Ben hums ponderously in agreement. “Well anyway,” he announces with new energy, clapping his hands to his knees. “You’re right, Callum. I do have work. Busy man, I am. Places to be and people to see. Or do,” he adds fleetingly with a wink. “Can’t exactly be gate-crashing your romantic candlelit dinner.”

  
“It’s a bacon butty in a greasy spoon,” Whitney rectifies with a laugh.

  
“Even so,” Ben goes on persistently, not letting it drop. “Wouldn’t want to cause any distractions, would I?” he drags out slowly, eyes boring into Callum. “With all the wedding planning you’ll be doing.”

  
“Right,” Whitney begins waveringly. “Well if you’re sure.”

  
“Couldn’t be more so,” he fires back with a smarmy grin.

  
Whitney shoots Ben a quizzical frown, raising her eyebrows significantly at Callum. “You coming then, babe?”

  
“Yeah,” Callum replies, placing his hands to his knees and lifting himself up. They make to walk away, Whitney planting a peck to his cheek with a mischievous grin as Callum props a hand around her lower back, but without quite mastering a firm, effortless grip. It just sort of hangs, loosely; unguided.

  
“Well enjoy, lovebirds,” Ben shouts out, a bit too loudly. “Oh and Callum?” he chimes, Callum anxiously darting his head back. “Fix your tie, mate. It ain’t straight,” he winks.

+++

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> I absolutely adore writing for these two so I'm to get round to writing for them again soon!
> 
> I would love to know what you thought xx
> 
> Find me and my crackheadery on twitter @sugdendale_


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